Brighid's Mark (2 page)

What had begun in the early nineteenth century as the finest house on Royal Street had been through fires, floods, demons, hurricanes, and tourists—occasionally all at once. Now it was a nightclub dedicated to jazz, restless spirits, and the council of a certain Baron. But it was tourists that fed the city with their energy, their hunger for excitement, their dreams and desires, which had grown only more desperate since the war.

Because of tourists, the city lived.
Thrived.

Pungent smoke drifted from the open door to mingle with the fog flooding the night streets, the pavement glistening with residual rain. Inside, the joint was packed tight in a blue and purple haze. Jazz slunk between the crammed bodies like a pickpocket on payday. Liam slipped past a party awash with candlelight and alcohol. The huddle of women erupted excitedly the moment he disappeared into the smoke.

A stage jutted out onto the floor like a small, moonlit island in a world of mist, pulsing with electric blue and purple light. Close observation might reveal the members of the jazz quartet bore a striking resemblance to one another, but such examination wasn’t advisable. The trumpet player featured prominently in a black suit with blue shirt and purple fedora. When the light crossed his face, the bones and hollows stood out like a skull.

A space cleared nearby to reveal a table backed by blood red curtains, its lone occupant enjoying an expensive cigar. His suit was crisp white, paired with a purple shirt. A midnight blue fedora hunkered on the table. He acknowledged Liam with shimmering black eyes and enigmatic smile as he wafted a smoky invitation to sit.

Liam grasped the only unoccupied chair. It felt remarkably real in his hand. It encompassed the very definition of a chair, weighty and solemn. He sat, crossed one leg over the other and waited.

A waiter appeared at his side, materializing from shadow and cigar smoke. He set a rum bottle and two cut crystal glasses on the table and dematerialized once more. Liam opened the bottle and splashed amber liquid into both glasses. On second thought, he made it a double.

Shimmering eyes missed nothing. The Baron shifted back into the shadows afforded by the plush curtains and nearby candelabra. “Dreaming again?”

“You would know.”

“As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t.” He unleashed a switchblade smile as the cigar described a vague pattern in the air, adding to the haze. “I hear things.”

Liam cleared his throat. “Anything about a great bloody demon setting fire to my city?” He froze in the abrupt focus of his host. “Our city,” he amended wisely.

“Could be one of the ladies getting involved.” The Baron tapped ash from his cigar. “They do that.”

“Which lady would that be?”

A languid shrug. “Hard to tell, time like this. If it were me looking for answers, I’d find myself a hoodoo.”

Liam poured another round. He didn’t care for rum, but it was a favorite of the Loa and consultations required gifts in return. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

“Not me. Him.”

Liam turned in time to see someone fighting his way through the smoke. He stumbled into their midst, twisting from the hazy thick folds as one would escape a maiden aunt’s determined pinch.

“Really, ladies.” He straightened the lapels of his brown leather blazer, out of date by at least fifty years. “That sort of behavior is completely uncalled for.”

Liam swallowed a groan. “You’re joking.”

“Ah. Right on schedule.” The Baron drained his glass and took a final long pull on his cigar. When he exhaled, the smoke formed extravagant curlicues in the already heavy air. It spread in a perfect circle around their little cove of comfortable dark and music. He snapped the fingers of his free hand. The smoke stopped drifting, while ambient noise and activity came to a halt. Only the music continued unabated.

 
The lapel tugger approached, wary. “Baron Saturday?” His gaze swiveled from the Baron to the jazz quartet and back again.

“Best not to dwell,” Liam advised, not unkindly.

The Baron puffed heavily on his cigar, working up a good head of steam. He exhaled, smoke churning until it formed another, whispy chair that turned as solid and real as Liam’s.

The newcomer pulled it out, sitting as though it might erupt beneath him. “I’ve seen some strange things. This”—he nodded at the smoke swirling about them like a cat at the prospect of cream—“takes the gumbo.” He placed a gray pouch on the table between them, and waited.

The Baron claimed the pouch with a long fingered hand, brought it to his prominent nose and inhaled with deep satisfaction. “Irish tobacco. Haven’t had the pleasure in some time.” He secreted the gift inside his jacket, stubbing out his cigar. “Suppose you tell the old Baron what brings you to his fair city.”

“A woman.” Their unlikely visitor shot a furtive expression about, swallowing. “A dead woman, to be precise. And it’s going to piss the almighty hell out of a friend of mine when she finds out.”

“And you are?” Liam wanted to know, eyebrow raised.

“Donal. Demon hunter.”

Liam tried not to look skeptical. “
You’re
a demon hunter.”

Donal cocked his head, rocking his hand to and fro. “Not as such. But my friend’s gotta knack for it, and I help her with the reconnaissance. When she finds this particular demon, she’s going to rip it limb from limb.”

“It’s a big demon.”

“Yes, and it’s killed a member of her family.” Donal turned to the Baron. “She’ll need your permission to enter the city. She’ll be arriving by… Call it ‘unusual transport’.”

The Baron took the request as his due. “Your friend serves a different Loa.”

Donal canted a furtive glance at the avid Liam. “Brighid.”

The Baron nodded magnanimous understanding. Liam was glad someone did. “The Celtic Loa are closer than one would think.” He grinned. “Kissing cousins, if you will. It isn’t unknown for them to have an emissary in our territory.”

Donal breathed a sigh of relief. “So it is allowed?”

“Well,” the Baron drawled, lighting a fresh cigar. “It should certainly make things interesting.”

Callie’s phone rang with the shrill insistence of an emergency broadcast, and then launched into a particularly obnoxious rendition of
Parting Glass.
Her hand shot out in self-defense, capsizing a perfectly fresh mug of coffee. And so the best part of the morning was wasted.

Swearing, she shook the piping liquid from her hand and made a second grab for her phone. “Donny? Where the hell are you?”

“New Orleans.” Long Irish vowels cracked and popped over the line.

“Where?” She sat up, dislodging the unraveling afghan covering her. “This is no time for women, drink and song.”

“If only.” His voice dipped into undertone murmurs and static. “Listen, there’s someone here you should talk to.”

“So put them on.” Her whole body came alive with adrenaline. Something was seriously wrong. The more Donal knew, the more furtive he got, like a rat hoarding a secret passage to a cheese shop. She was wide awake now, even without precious coffee.

“The city and technology don’t get on very well. We had to drive beyond city limits to get this much connection, and it’s going to go any moment. You really need to be here. Soonest’s best.”

“Give me half an hour.” She hung up and took her half-empty mug to the kitchenette, bare feet silent on the wood floor. The old-fashioned coil heater still worked, but smelled of burnt bread. She suspected Chase still made grilled cheese sandwiches on it.
 

She set the mug on the counter, ignoring the residual drips pooling around the base. “How’s the leg?”

“It’ll do. Better than if you hadn’t made the place a sanctuary.” Chase paused in his diligent attendance of a full pack of bacon turning his cast iron skillet into an oil reservoir. His dirty blond hair was sleep-mussed, Lone-Star Militia T-shirt worn almost beyond legibility. “Where’s he at?”

“New Orleans, of all places.” Her mouth watered. She reached over and snagged a still sizzling strip of bacon straight from the pan with the speed of a striking cobra. She could only get away with it once, but it was worth it.

Chase flipped the remaining bacon with a practiced hand. “You kickin’ his ass again, or does he actually have the scent of something?”

“Both, in all likelihood. Where’re the keys to the van?” She turned to retrieve her duffle, abandoned on the floor by the couch when she’d crashed and burned the night before.

“If we’re goin’
between
I’ll do the driving.”

“Not on that leg. You need at least another two days in sanctuary to fully heal.” She unzipped the bag and rooted around in a vain search for fresh clothing.

Chase grunted, halfway between a snort and a laugh. “Not an option. You’re a woman of many and varied talents, Callie—none of which are quite as varied as your driving.”

“Fine. Just hurry.” It was true she was an erratic driver at the best of times, so she didn’t argue. Driving a propelling hunk of metal from Chicago to New Orleans via the valley where space and time came together was a sure-fire route to unmitigated disaster. It was all a matter of physics.

Chase retrieved a casserole dish from a cupboard and began loading it with eggs and biscuits. “Not without breakfast. Never could abide New Orleans food.”

Callie retreated into the bathroom for a shower, shaking her head. Who in their right mind didn’t enjoy New Orleans cuisine? Gumbo. Oysters.
Beignets.

The trick lay in resisting the temptation to ask what the ingredients were in what you were eating. Crescent City cookery tended to be, well, creative. In more ways than one.

Chapter Two

Liam and Donal stood side by side in an empty intersection outside the city, watching the haze of humidity stretch its lazy reach over the skyline. Old, unmaintained asphalt glittered dully in the mellow moonlight, while the gleam of broken glass spoke to the frequent occupation of transients. A forlorn bit of plastic bumped and scraped its way across the lot. Expectancy filled the air, adding to the already overwhelming humidity.

Donal pushed his spine from a crumbling cement wall, which was covered in a chaotic patchwork of graffiti. “It must be close to time by now. We’ll need a focal point.”

Liam’s eyebrows lifted. “Focal point?”

Donal held out an expectant hand. “Something small will do. I don’t have anything that will work, not here.”

Curious, Liam pulled the ring off his finger and passed it over.

Donal hefted it experimentally. “That should do’er.” He struck out into the empty intersection, gauging by some secret set of criteria only he was privy to. Liam followed.

Donal flung Liam’s ring high into the air. It stuck at its highest apex with a
ping
, a small earthbound star. Its light expanded and brightened, followed by a deafening roar. Liam shielded his eyes.

Donal tackled him to the ground as a beat up blue van screamed out of nowhere. It screeched to a halt, back end swinging. It rocked on its axles and gently steamed as the metal cooled. After a moment, the passenger side door creaked open. From his prone position, Liam watched boots land on the pavement.

“You always overshoot it,” a drawling male voice observed, as a matter of interest. The driver reached through the open window to unlatch the door from the outside.

“It’s not an exact science,” his passenger pointed out, slamming her door.

Liam leveraged himself upright. His left arm throbbed where he’d landed. After a moment spent recapturing his breath, Liam circled the front of the van.

 
What he saw was Donal being embraced by a woman taller than the mid-sized Irishman, with a mass of wild raspberry and russet hair more or less anchored to the back of her head and a figure appropriate for the ranks of the valkyrie. The skin on Liam’s arms and the back of his neck tingled, something at his core resonating with an eerie sense recognition.

Donal stepped back from the woman, hands on her arms. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but we lost a Keeper.”

She stilled. “Tell me it isn’t—

“Eva. I’m so sorry.”

She pulled away, voice shaking. “She was one of the oldest.”

“There’s someone who can help us figure out what happened.” Donal beckoned Liam forward. “This is Liam. Liam, Callie.”

“Donny says we should talk.” Callie had the eyes of a lioness, tawny hazel and brimming with predatory curiosity.

It was a little off-putting, those eyes, but in a way that turned his insides to warm honey. The feeling of recognition increased, déjà vu coming to fruition.

Liam cleared his throat and proffered his hand. “I’m sorry about Eva. She was a colleague, of sorts.”

When he slid his hand into hers, a strange thing happened. His throbbing arm turned to wildfire, exquisite hot pain raging from hand to shoulder. In that moment, he would have gladly cut it off.

He hit the ground. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. He could only hurt.

Solid weight landed next to him. He shied away from the warm hand reaching for his neck.

“Settle down, darlin’.” Callie pressed her palm against his jugular, and some of the pain dissipated. He sucked in a lung full of precious air…and immediately started coughing.